Dims Story Chapter 1
by littletompepper
Summary: Being the adventures of a young man whose interests are dratsing, crasting, tolchocking, the old inout and maintening the lawful peace of the queen. Clockwork Orange retold form Dim's side of things.
1. Chapter 1

Righty right, my brothers and only friends. Righty right.

Now let's get one thing bright and sparkling clear. You are **not** my brothers and only friends. Not by a long chalk. I've got new brothers and friends now. A whole new set of droogs. All lawful and the like. And like brothers and true droogs they are too. Not like those other ones – the one's I'm going to govoreet about and tell you like what really happened.

First things first, as they say down at the station. My eemya. It's not Dim, and I'm not dim neither. It's Dimitri. And I'm bright and sharp as a cold frosty winter morning, especially when I'm out with the rest of the Queen's lawful enforcers, putting a stop to wickedness and all that cal. And nothing gets past me. Got it! Dimitri. Not dim. Not by a long chalk, my brothers.

So I'm going to start just where Alex did, right at the beginning, that being like the right and proper place to start any story, as the sergeant says. So here it is- in the Korova, that winter nochy when it all began.

I know what you are thinking. All those messels you have inside your gulliver, because nothing gets past me. Officer 667, Officer Dimitri. You've viddied the picciwic down at the old multi-screen, and you've read all those slovos that Alex writ. Or like, me, not being like one for reading much, you've listened to little Alex himself, reading out his own slovos on an audio disc. How little Alex was like the leader and how like his droogs were like unfaithful and he was put in the staja and then got let out all that. And a nice malenky story it is to. Hehehe. Poor little Alex, getting all that sympathy. And then all those malchicks who had viddied "A Clockwork Orange" dressing up like little Alex in their best white platties, Alex being like a hero to them, and ittying off inot the nochy to go tolchocking and cratsing and giving the old in-out to any devotchka they might find. And then there were all those ptitsas, who had like never seen such a horrorshow malchick as Alexander De large in all their jeezny. Who like fell in love with him because he was sucha naughy baddiwad, and whwn they viddied him up there on the screen, smiling and lifting up his glass of the old moloko, they fell swooning and sighing and moaning right down in their keeshkas at the sight of him, wanting nothing better than Alex to rip off their neezhnies and give them the plunge real horrorshow in some dark alley round the back of the Korova.

But it's **my** story I'm telling you now. The real story. Dimitri's story. And there's like only one hero in this one, and it's not that lying piece of cal, Alexander de Large. So get ready for it, and any little ptitsas that are reading this, well you never know, you might find that it's me that has you sighing and moaning in your keeshkas… Righty, right.

So we were that nochy. There was me, that is Dimitri like I already told you, Pete, Georgie, and Alex, Alex being like really nadmehny and the youngest of us all, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rasoodocks what to do with the evening.

Now there was nothing special about that evening. The usual group of malchicks peeting away on the old moloko, and a handful of devotchkas casting their glazzies around the Korova and looking to see who was up for a bit of pol. We were sitting pretty, carmans full of cutter, the old moloko starting to kick in, that warm feeling rising up through your guttiwutts, until everything starts to be as bright and sharp as the shing edge of a sickle moon shiving through the dark wintry sky. And then the moloko really kicks and jumps in your plott, and the old knives start whirling and shiving away in your gulliver real horrorshow.

There were three sharps, all on theor oodyknocky, plattied up to the nines, as we said, smecking away at us, and giving us the glad glazzie, and making their groodies shake as they ran their rookers through their wigs on their gullivers and writhed their plotts to the sound of Bert Laski rasping away with "You Blister My Paint". So I start raising my glass to them and they start smecking away and fluttering the glazzlids, and I'm think to myself, we're in here lads.

But Alex could't have it, could he. It's not good enough for him. We could have had the sharps outside real skorry and been back in before the disc had changed. If he hadn't wanted it, we could have left him in there kupetting a demi-litre of white, but this time with a dollop of synthmesc in it, but that wouldn't really have been playing the game. Not the right thing at all, eh brothers, for me and Pete and Georgie to be outside getting a bit of the old in-out and leaving Alex all on his oddyknocky. Or Georgie and Alex could have doubled up on the skinny one with the orange hair. Mine was a nice piece of sharp, big bobbling groodies swinging in time to Bert Laski's fuzzy warbles, and Pete was smecking away at the one in the green wig, who looked all right.

So, then, just while I'm messeling all this, and wondering whether to offer to share _my_ sharp with Alex, the one with the purple wig and the huge groodies who's smecking away at me, Alex starts shouting "Out, out, out, out!" like a yelping doggie and tumbling us all out of our seats and out of the Korova.

That's it always was with Alex. One minute he'd be staring into his moloko in the Korova, or looking out across the marina and the next he's snarling and snapping and burning up to do something, whether it was a bit of crasting or tolchocking or carving up some malchick. Flighty. That's what he was. But he needed to come down a peg or two and learn what's what in this jeezny.

So off we went into the cold winter nochy, and that was the start of it all right...


	2. Chapter 2

Righty right, my brothers and only friends. Righty right.

Now let's get one thing bright and sparkling clear. You are **not** my brothers and only friends. Not by a long chalk. I've got new brothers and friends now. A whole new set of droogs. All lawful and the like. And like brothers and true droogs they are too. Not like those other ones – the one's I'm going to govoreet about and tell you like what really happened.

First things first, as they say down at the station. My eemya. It's not Dim, and I'm not dim neither. It's Dimitri. And I'm bright and sharp as a cold frosty winter morning, especially when I'm out with the rest of the Queen's lawful enforcers, putting a stop to wickedness and all that cal. And nothing gets past me. Got it! Dimitri. Not dim. Not by a long chalk, my brothers.

So I'm going to start just where Alex did, right at the beginning, that being like the right and proper place to start any story, as the sergeant says. So here it is- in the Korova, that winter nochy when it all began.

I know what you are thinking. All those messels you have inside your gulliver, because nothing gets past me. Officer 667, Officer Dimitri. You've viddied the picciwic down at the old multi-screen, and you've read all those slovos that Alex writ. Or like, me, not being like one for reading much, you've listened to little Alex himself, reading out his own slovos on an audio disc. How little Alex was like the leader and how like his droogs were like unfaithful and he was put in the staja and then got let out all that. And a nice malenky story it is to. Hehehe. Poor little Alex, getting all that sympathy. And then all those malchicks who had viddied "A Clockwork Orange" dressing up like little Alex in their best white platties, Alex being like a hero to them, and ittying off inot the nochy to go tolchocking and cratsing and giving the old in-out to any devotchka they might find. And then there were all those ptitsas, who had like never seen such a horrorshow malchick as Alexander De large in all their jeezny. Who like fell in love with him because he was sucha naughy baddiwad, and whwn they viddied him up there on the screen, smiling and lifting up his glass of the old moloko, they fell swooning and sighing and moaning right down in their keeshkas at the sight of him, wanting nothing better than Alex to rip off their neezhnies and give them the plunge real horrorshow in some dark alley round the back of the Korova.

But it's **my** story I'm telling you now. The real story. Dimitri's story. And there's like only one hero in this one, and it's not that lying piece of cal, Alexander de Large. So get ready for it, and any little ptitsas that are reading this, well you never know, you might find that it's me that has you sighing and moaning in your keeshkas… Righty, right.

So we were that nochy. There was me, that is Dimitri like I already told you, Pete, Georgie, and Alex, Alex being like really nadmehny and the youngest of us all, and we sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rasoodocks what to do with the evening.

Now there was nothing special about that evening. The usual group of malchicks peeting away on the old moloko, and a handful of devotchkas casting their glazzies around the Korova and looking to see who was up for a bit of pol. We were sitting pretty, carmans full of cutter, the old moloko starting to kick in, that warm feeling rising up through your guttiwutts, until everything starts to be as bright and sharp as the shing edge of a sickle moon shiving through the dark wintry sky. And then the moloko really kicks and jumps in your plott, and the old knives start whirling and shiving away in your gulliver real horrorshow.

There were three sharps, all on theor oodyknocky, plattied up to the nines, as we said, smecking away at us, and giving us the glad glazzie, and making their groodies shake as they ran their rookers through their wigs on their gullivers and writhed their plotts to the sound of Bert Laski rasping away with "You Blister My Paint". So I start raising my glass to them and they start smecking away and fluttering the glazzlids, and I'm think to myself, we're in here lads.

But Alex could't have it, could he. It's not good enough for him. We could have had the sharps outside real skorry and been back in before the disc had changed. If he hadn't wanted it, we could have left him in there kupetting a demi-litre of white, but this time with a dollop of synthmesc in it, but that wouldn't really have been playing the game. Not the right thing at all, eh brothers, for me and Pete and Georgie to be outside getting a bit of the old in-out and leaving Alex all on his oddyknocky. Or Georgie and Alex could have doubled up on the skinny one with the orange hair. Mine was a nice piece of sharp, big bobbling groodies swinging in time to Bert Laski's fuzzy warbles, and Pete was smecking away at the one in the green wig, who looked all right.

So, then, just while I'm messeling all this, and wondering whether to offer to share _my_ sharp with Alex, the one with the purple wig and the huge groodies who's smecking away at me, Alex starts shouting "Out, out, out, out!" like a yelping doggie and tumbling us all out of our seats and out of the Korova.

That's it always was with Alex. One minute he'd be staring into his moloko in the Korova, or looking out across the marina and the next he's snarling and snapping and burning up to do something, whether it was a bit of crasting or tolchocking or carving up some malchick. Flighty. That's what he was. But he needed to come down a peg or two and learn what's what in this jeezny.

So off we went into the cold winter nochy, and that was the start of it all right...

Chapter 2

"Welly, welly, welly, well. If it isn't fat stinking Billygoat Billyboy, in poison" Everyone knows those slovos, because that's like the start of all the tolchocking and the old in-out. Those that have like read the book, know it started a bit earlier with a old veck leaving the public biblio or aa bit of shop crasting from old Slouse. But the real story begins much much earlier.

Have you ever wondered why Alex hated Billyboy so much. Was it just the grazhny von of his platties, which was like a stinky mix of chip oil and sweat and globby streaks and stains all down the front of his platties from a bit of spatting? No my brothers and sister. It was like all down to a malenky bit of fillying that had happened one nochy.

Me and Alex had been in the Korova with this devotchka one nochy. Her being like real shooty and me and Alex just making with the deng and watching her pouring the old moloko down her gulliver – first a glass ot two of drencrom, then of synthemesc then of vellocet until like after thirty or forty or fifty minutas of this mix sloshing around insode her plott, she began burbling all sorts of bezoomey slovos and staring at out litsos like we were Bog incarnate or Old Nick or both together. This being like the moment, skorry as you like we had her outside and up against a wall, me locking her rookers from behind, not to do the strongman act, there wasn't no need for that, her being like well away in the land and still viddying Bog and all his holy angels. No my brothers and sisters, it was just to like keep her upright while Alex went at it.

I was just patiently gripping the ptitsa, who was still burbling away about Bog glorious luminosity, and moaning and platching as Alex plunged away, giving it to her good and proper, it being a malenky bit shooty of her to peet so much moloko with two malchicks that she didn't know, but a devotchka has to learn her lessons in this jeezny, as I always say.

Then out of the nochy stepped Billyboy and his four droogs, smecking and laughing and rubbing their rookers together and licking their goobers. When you have a devotchka like that and there's only two of you, you may as well just let them have her. There's no reason to get all bezoomey. Its reasonless. But that's Alex all over – reasonless and bezoomey over little veschs like that. Then there was like the dirty slovo part from Billyboy, pulling out his panhandle with "Come and get it all omny, my sister. Not a malenky floppy vesch, but a real stiff schlaga."

And I have to say this my brothers and sister, Billyboy had a huge panhandle and schlaga was the right slovo and mistake.

And Alex was like standing there with his panhandle sticking up like a flagpole, and I could viddy that bezoomey look he gets on his litso when he's full of like radosty and anger, as he viddied the monster between Billyboy's nogas. Because not only was he not going to get his bit of pol with the devotchka, he was going to have to give way to an ugly stinky malchick with the biggest tool we'd ever viddied.

I didn't mind waiting. I knew Leo from the youth corrective facility, and I kept the devotchka's rookers locked while Billyboy and then Leo and then the next one, then the next then the last malchick had her. Then like I tipped the wink Alex for him to have like his turn, but he was still all full of anger and like hate and govoreeted that he wouldn't put his rod into a great globby stinky hole that was dripping and running with other malchicks spatterings.

So Leo and Billyboy did the honours, holding up the devotchka, who by now was starting to realise what had been done to her, and was platching and boohoohooing while I had mine.

Now, that's the whole story, and like me, you must be wondering why Alex got all bezoomey about it. I mean, he could have had a bit of the old in-out in-out if he'd wanted. But oh no – he's too 'fastidious' as he puts it. Too much the swaggering droog to stick his rod into a bit of squelchy ptitsa, just because he has to wait for a few malchicks to get theirs first. And since then hes had it in for Billboy.

So here we were, inside the derelict casino, with Billyboy getting ready to perform the old in-out in-out on a weepy young devotchka they had there, and Alex swinging his shlaga and challenging Billyboy to a real nozh fight.


End file.
